


A Gift

by Batdad (MizGoat)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizGoat/pseuds/Batdad
Summary: After Waxer almost died on Umbara, he and Boil decide to make a run for it. They've managed to make a relatively comfortable life for themselves even as fugitives.





	A Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrennette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/gifts).



> Original prompt was:
> 
>  
> 
> _"I will take absolutely anything for these two, additional love if you can work in Numa, but not obligatory. Would love to see a happy ever after for them, either defecting from the GAR or in an AU where Order 66 doesn't happen."_
> 
>  
> 
> Decided to go with the first option. Hopefully you like it.

The wind screamed in wild rage as it wound through the streets of the small fishing city. The sound was a constant of their life here, and Boil had half a mind to throw his head back and let loose a howl in return. Instead he hunched over further, cupped his hands to his face to shield his already wind burnt cheeks and continued walking back to the little apartment they had rented. You couldn’t out yell the wind and he’d sworn to be done with unwinnable fights back on Umbara.

Three days of waiting, of begging off every duty he could get out of so he could slip away to medical, of praying without knowing who or what he prayed to. of not knowing if Waxer would ever wake up. Not because of Clankers, or Separatists, but because a Jedi had betrayed them. Boil had decided then that he was signing his own release papers. He’d given enough to this war, he wouldn’t give Waxer too.

He’d worried that Waxer wouldn’t want to come along with the plan, but as it turned out leading a firefight against the 501st had left more scars than just the physical. Once they found their opening they had both made a run for it.

They’d lived like nomads since then. This planet was just one in a long string of places where work was needed enough that no one looked to closely at a traveler’s documents, but not so valuable that it was worth bringing the war to them. They never stayed anywhere too long. Never long enough that they might get recognized, or that someone might realize they didn’t much behave like the birthborn brothers that everyone assumed them to be. They’d work long enough to afford another move and they’d be gone. 

Waxer was waiting for him by the doorway when he returned. As soon as the door was safely closed behind him, Waxer’s hands were around his waist and rooting through the interior pockets of of the large duffle coat he was wearing.

“Is it me or the dinner you’re excited to see?” Boil asked with a laugh.

“Can’t I be both?” Waxer replied and pressed a quick stubbly kiss to Boil’s cheek. This planet was too cold for being clean shaven and they had both let their beards grow in. Waxer had even let a short crop of wavy black hair come in on his head. He itched at it constantly and Boil knew it would be gone as soon as they were someplace warmer, but he still thought it was cute.

Boil guided Waxer’s hands to the pocket that continued their meal. It was a local dish that consisted of fish and root vegetables baked into a flaky pastry. Simple, hearty food of the sort that was easy for workmen to wrap in foil and take with them to their job. Tasted alright too. He might actually miss these when the left this planet in a few days.

Waxer took one of the packages and sat down on the rough carved bench that was one of the room’s scant furnishings. He dug into the meal with gusto. After taking a moment to shed his outer layers of clothing Boil joined him on the bench, watching with interest as Waxer’s tongue darted out to catch a flake of the pastry that had gotten stuck to his lip.

Food had been one of the many unexpected challenges of life outside the GAR. Their whole lives they had lived on a regulated diet that had arrived pre-prepared on trays. They hadn’t even known where to begin with providing for themselves. Luckily Waxer had stumbled across the trick of acting like the reason he was so interested in getting recommendations from strangers was that he was simply new to the area and unfamiliar with local cuisine, neither strictly a lie, rather than with the entire idea of picking his own meals. He’d offer up his warm and friendly smile and inevitably some local would begin waxing poetic about the best the region had to offer. It was how they had discovered what they were eating tonight.

It wasn’t until he had almost finished eating that he noticed the box propped against the far wall.

“Start packing early? Boil asked, suspecting that the answer was no.

“Ah, yeah, about that.” Waxer hesitated and tore the remaining bit of his pastry in two sending litle flakes of it everywhere. “Well the good news is you can quit fussing at me to get rid of my old armor.” Waxer smiled hopefully.

It was an old argument between them. Boil complained that keeping the armor was a liability they didn’t need, and Waxer held on to it anyway without every really being able to articulate why he needed to.

“Why’s that? What have you done with it?” Boil was cautious. If Waxer thought he was going to like the news, he wouldn’t be so careful about how he was relating it.

“Threw most of it overboard when the fishing boat got over deep water late at night last time we were out. Burial at sea, as it were.” He paused again, clearly waiting for Boil to prompt him for more information.

“Most of it? I assume the rest is in the box.” Boil rubbed his temples.

“Yeah well, there’s a cargo freighter in dock that’s going to make a port of call at Ryloth.” Waxer nibbled at his shredded pastry. 

“Yes?” Boil had to believe there was a reason he was being given this non sequitur information.

“And I talked to the manager, and he said that last time they were there a few months ago that the planetary mail was mostly running, and that he’d be willing to transfer a package to them for delivery for a very reasonable fee.”

“Why are you mailing part of your armor to Ryloth, Waxer.” Boil’s voice went flat.

“I’m sending it to Numa. Or I’m trying to at least. Never any guarantees” Waxer met his gaze and he seemed oddly nervous for all that he sounded quite firm.

“Ok.” It wasn’t an idea that would ever have occurred to him, sending the armor to the little Twi’lek girl they had befriended so briefly, but it was the sort of sentimental thing Waxer would go in for. He’s come to think of her as something of a mascot. Even painted her on his helmet. Leaving some of their amor where it could be found and tracked seemed stupid, but maybe by now no one was looking for them. Still felt like an unnecessary risk though.

“Just, ok? No lecture on how I’m being reckless? I had my counterarguments all lined up, and everything.” Waxer was uncoiling a little, but he still seemed tense.

“I didn’t think you were asking permission,” Boil told him. He was done with unwinnable fights.

“I’m not, but it be nice if you weren’t angry about it.” He gently pushed Boil’s shoulder.

“I’m not angry!” Boil made a quick dismissive gesture with his hands.

“You’re a little angry.” Waxer scooted closer and grinned.

“If you say so,” Boil grunted and moved to turn away only to be pulled back into a kiss by Waxer.

Waxer’s lips were chapped and rough, and Boil knew his weren’t any better. This planet hadn’t been kind to their skin, but whatever hazards they faced now paled to life in the army. He would never stop being glad they got out. He kissed back with a ferocity born of years of stolen moments and hidden hunger. If this was what he had given up everything he had known for, than it was worth it. Waxer was worth it.

He slipped his hand under the thick sweater Waxer was wearing and placed his palm against Waxer’s waist. Waxer shivered and jerked away reflexively.

“Stang! Your fingers are cold!” he cried.

“Then let me warm them up,” Boil said with an attempt at a seductive smile. He slid his other hand in with the first and this time Waxer didn’t pull back. He could feel the thick ridges of scar left by an almost fatal blaster bolt and he let his fingers drift over them. Slowly he lowered his head until it rested against Waxer’s chest and he could hear the rhythmic thumping of his heart.

“It’s getting late, why don’t we head to bed,” Waxer murmured into his hair.

“It’s not that late,” Boil started to say, but Waxer cut him off.

“Let’s go to bed anyway.” And Boil readily agreed

Early the next morning Boil slid out of their shared bed careful not to wake his lover. He grumbled quietly as his bare feet hit the cold floor, but he resisted the urge to slide them back under the covers. He slowly padded over to Waxer’s box and peered inside.

It was one of the arms. He hadn’t thought to ask which part of the armor Waxer had kept last night, and he was a little surprised it wasn’t the helmet. That was generally the most personal item. He and Waxer had painted their arms to match. Hell, he’d never really been sure whose arms were whose at times and suspected that they had unintentionally switched several times. But then maybe that was the point. 

He carefully lifted out the upper arm piece out of the box, found a small folding knife and set to work.

Boil didn’t hear Waxer come up beside him until he set a mug of caf down by Boil’s thigh.

“Figured you’d be worried about someone using it to track us, not writing our names on it,” he said with a smile and kissed Boil’s temple.

“Well, I thought that the little mite should know who was sending her gifts.” Boil brushed away the last of the shavings from his handiwork. He’d carved Waxer’s name and his own into the hard plastic in a pair of neat lines stacked one over the other.

“It’s perfect,” Waxer said with a smile. Boil loved the way the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he was happy. “Help me pack it back up? I need to drop it off today.”

Later as they walked through an empty part of town Boil impulsively grabbed Waxer’s hand just to feel the pressure from the curl of gloved fingers against his own. They were together, that was all he needed.


End file.
